England has been visited by an earthquake. The newspapers have dilated upon it, and hundreds of persons have hastened to record their sensations. They have told us how they got out of bed and lit their candles, as if they had hoped to have seen the earthquake, like a ghost, wandering about the earth; but earthquakes do not linger, and the last British one was over before most people knew anything about it. Others fancied they heard a great roaring noise; others compared the shock to a great dog or animal shaking itself under the bedstead; others to the vibrating of a steam-engine. Some saw leaves fall, walls shake, and some felt “a warm breath of air” upon their cheeks. In short, some told the truth as far as they could, and some told what was not quite the truth. If the truth had been simply stated, and the press had helped to state it by publishing as many letters as their correspondents chose to send them, we should have no other comment to make than to have thanked it for its pains. But when leaders were printed in such terrible paroxysmal terms, thanking Heaven we were not all swallowed up, we can scarcely regard such sensation articles as little less than impious.